


(the way I wear my) noose

by Parrannnah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blame Billie Eilish, Dark Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Magical Stiles Stilinski, My V Is For Vendetta, This is just violence and hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22738201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parrannnah/pseuds/Parrannnah
Summary: Whatever sanity and moral compass he had was burned out of him the same night they burned his mate and his pack to ash.Is this what Peter had felt like when he woke from the coma? Mind consumed by fire and vengeance?Stiles could relate.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 106





	(the way I wear my) noose

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by bellyache by Billie Eilish.
> 
> Real dark. By far the darkest thing I've ever written. But it seemed fitting, to see what Stiles would be like if it all was for nothing.
> 
> Lots of people are dead right off the bat and no one makes it out alive.
> 
> Read at your own risk.

_Everything I do_

_The way I wear my noose_

_Like a necklace_

_I wanna make 'em scared_

_Like I could be anywhere_

_Like I'm reckless_

_I lost my mind_

_I don’t mind_

—Billie Eilish, **bellyache**

  
  


They should have known better. 

They should have done their goddamn research on just what the Beacon Hills pack had managed in their short time on this earth before they came in and fucked it all up. Should have looked closer at the human pack member who had been running with wolves, was mated to an alpha, who had survived the direst of goddamn circumstances and come out the other side through sheer force of will.

They should have accounted for Stiles. 

And they did, in a way. They knew better than to mount their attack when he was there to protect his pack. They waited until he and his dad were set to drive to Berkeley for a visit, just a weekend away, after almost nine months of peace. These motherfuckers waited until he left town for the first time in years to come in armed for Were in all the most brutal ways, ways damn near guaranteed to take out one of the most unconventional and powerful packs of the last fifty years.

They didn’t account for the human being anything other than helpless though. Didn’t know that Stiles had taken his spark and built it to an inferno. 

Didn’t know he was one of the most powerful magic users that had ever lived.

They really thought he’d just gone out of town and left the pack alone, unprotected. Thought he’d never be the one that was going to do the protected.

They thought fucking wrong.

The tattoo on his chest started pulsing not an hour outside of Beacon Hills, and Stiles didn’t even have to tell his dad to turn around, because his own version of the pack tattoo started throbbing too. The wolves had pack bonds to help them keep up on the well-being of their pack mates but everyone else didn’t, and so stiles had scoured his books for a solution. Thus the tattoos, the ink magicked to create a connection between the bearers. It allowed them all to sense the general state of being of each other at all times regardless of distance.

And this throbbing, this unending pulsation that was picking up speed and pressure as more and more of the bonds came to life meant one thing and one thing only: 

Life-threatening danger.

Stiles would give the fanatical amateur hunters this: they worked quick. By the time the Stilinski’s got back to Beacon Hills, it was almost too late.

Would have been for anyone but this pack, for anyone who wasn’t Stiles. 

The hunters thought them dead.

They were mostly right.

But close is no cigar, and only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and Stiles didn’t care what natural law said about those this close to death, these people were _his_ and they weren’t dead, because he fucking said so.

But he’d need blood magic for this.

He managed to come up with a spell that stopped the effects of all the damage inflicted on his mate, his pack, but it was too much to reverse, so he left them in his dad’s care after extracting a promise to call Melissa, get the pack to the stump of the Nemeton, and not ask questions about what Stiles was going to do.

He had always been more morally gray than his father was comfortable with, the limits on what he would do to save those he loved almost nonexistent.

Whatever ones he’d had were gone now.

—

Stiles can admit, at that moment, he was arrogant. And in his arrogance, he forgot the most important thing you had to remember about zealots.

They were always crazier than you thought they were.

They firebombed the Nemeton.

But only after his father and Melissa had the pack laid out and waiting. Waiting for Stiles to do what he did best and find a solution.

They really did manage to take everything from him that night. 

And that wasn’t alright. No, it couldn’t be allowed to go unanswered.

Whatever sanity and moral compass he had was burned out of him the same night they burned his mate and his pack to ash.

Is this what Peter had felt like when he woke from the coma? Mind consumed by fire and vengeance? 

Stiles could relate.

He started on the fringes. The ones only tangentially involved with this new crop of zealous, fanatical hunters that Gerard (who they should have killed the first time around, but would most assuredly die this time) had managed to put together. He killed them slow. One at a time, always in front of someone else, someone who would take the news of his new life’s work ahead of him.

He used his magic, undoing their very existence piece by piece, unmaking their bodies as they watched, molecule by molecule, nerve by nerve, vein by vein. He made it hurt, made it excruciating. They screamed and begged and pleaded and he laughed and laughed and took no mercy on a single soul. 

He left scenes messy and full of blood and gore and didn’t give a single solitary fuck about evidence left behind.

He wasn’t planning on coming out of this alive.

It made him reckless. 

It made him dangerous.

There was no sense in how he went about it, which was exactly how he wanted it. He wanted to be their bogeyman, wanted to be the reason they looked over their shoulders for the short time they were still alive.

Now he was the reason to be afraid of the dark.

—

It took two and a half years.

His hands never stopped dripping with blood.

—

He knew that clinically speaking, he’d lost his mind from the grief.

But that’s the thing. His mind had always been able to function at a high capacity under the most unnatural of circumstances.

He was the child of essentially an entire sheriff's station, and he had run with wolves. He knew how to evade those looking for him, and track those who didn’t want to be found.

He left Gerard for last.

He crouched down in front of the old man who had blood running from his eyes and ears and nose and mouth, and before he finally, finally died, every organ in his body would liquify and come out through his pores.

He dragged it out for as long as he could, knowing this was the last thing he had to do before he could be done, before he could rest.

He had no regrets, but he was tired.

Gerard was almost dead, but just enough life was in him that if he was rushed to a hospital right this second he might survive. Maybe.

Stiles could hear the sirens

Gerard started to laugh, clearly thinking he’d been saved.

Stiles made a motion with his hands, and Gerard’s neck snapped.

Stiles was done anyway.

He left the map on the table, full of GPS coordinates for everybody he’d left just in case the feds had missed one.

Then he walked to the bed, placed his hand on the pack tattoo that had been devastatingly lifeless for so long, and snapped his fingers one last time. It was time to join his friends.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/KatAtomic2/) [Tumblr](https://kat-atomic.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
